


Because I'm Supposed to Be Your Shelter

by puppydeanandjen



Series: Shelter!verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drunk Dean Winchester, Dubious Consent, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Making Out, Pre-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 17:04:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14898519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppydeanandjen/pseuds/puppydeanandjen
Summary: Dean goes missing for a couple of weeks on a hunting trip and Sam searches for him.





	Because I'm Supposed to Be Your Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> So I just got off a plane a couple of hours ago and I'm so jet lag rn. I've literally been editing this for three days and now I feel brave enough to post it. This the sauciest thing I've ever written in my entire life (I mean most of my fics are rated T or G)
> 
> I tried to make this more character driven as my other fics are more story driven. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated :D

The damp road flashes in neon lights, appearing darker through the confines of helmet shades. A low growl reverberates in Sam’s ears from the machine he rides and his grip tightens around the handlebars, palms sweaty under leather gloves. A gust of wind flies past like a hurricane, backpack thankfully secured around his waist as it would definitely fall with this kind of pressure. His hand travels towards the clutch, pulling it gently as his toes flick the shifter upward, and changes lanes at ease, continuing to zoom haphazardly around other vehicles.

 

He’s just gotten used to the inner workings of the motorcycle- Sam doesn’t recall the brand, since he simply asked for the cheapest one when he went shopping, urgently needing a mode of transport-, but he only had a few weeks of experience on it. Dean would be shocked to find that his goodie two shoe brother had bought a motorcycle; if he could find him first, of course.

 

That’s why he’s rushing through the traffic- to reach the motel that his brother should be staying at now. Sam’s missed this chance several times before; a reminder that time is always ticking and that Dean travels quicker than the Millenium Falcon at light speed. There’s always a trail, although, which Sam sniffs out like a dog with higher intelligence.

 

Cutting into the motel- Sunset Motel, the sign had read in blaring red, but the t’s have gone dark so it’s more like Sunse Mo el-, Sam parks his bike copying exactly how he was taught by the biker in that bar a couple of towns back as they ‘couldn’t stand’ the way he was treating her.  _ Set to neutral. Walk back in slowly. Make sure there’s enough space to get off and on. _

 

Easy, simple steps that he could’ve learned on his own with a bit of time.

 

Releasing the latch for his helmet, he finally pulls the damn thing off, breathing in the semi-fresh air and shaking his disheveled hair, hating how the wet tips of his bangs stab at his eyes. He strips out of the gloves, fingers stretching themselves, and places it in his jacket pocket. Sam swings himself off, deploying the kickstand as he does, wobbly when he stands to his feet after riding for an entire day. His ass is stupidly sore and he curses the bike for all his troubles.

 

He hangs the helmet on the handle and travels to the front desk; there’s smokers, drinkers, drug dealers and people making out vigorously who really need to get a room because  _ nobody wants to see your hand groping some girl’s tits _ , loitering outside peach-colored walls. Sam glances at them for a few seconds as he passes, wondering about the mess that his brother has gotten into, before entering. 

 

The bell that hangs on the top of the door jiggles, but the panda-eyed, pale young lady at the counter pay no mind to the new customer, attention drilled on the magazine about trashy celebrities, inhaling the smoke from a cigarette that lies between her fingers.

 

“Excuse me,” he says politely with a sheepish smile, approaching the counter. The lady just takes a long drag of her cigarette and continues reading.

 

“Excuse me!” Sam tries a little louder which causes her to actually remove the stick from where it’s stuck between her lips, slamming it onto the dull marble.

 

“What?” Her voice is raspy with irritation bleeding through, clearly meant to piss him off so that he’ll leave her alone, but Sam has a certain agenda that he needs to get through and he isn’t allowing anybody to stop him now.

 

“I’m looking for someone,” he says while he calms himself down, begging with the puppy dog eyes that always help him gain his desires, no matter the victim. “He’s about yea high” Sam waves his hand near his eye level imagining the height that Dean was when he’d grabbed him by the collar, learning about Sam’s plan to pursue college and his dreams and anything else that didn’t include hunting. “Short blonde hair, green eyes, pale, wearing mostly flannel, really handsome”

 

The last one wasn’t supposed to be added to that list- although, he does admit it; he’s assured himself for a while that he does, indeed, have romantic feelings towards his brother, it’s one of the reasons why he left- since it implies that he’s an ex-boyfriend who got his heart broken and now he’s searching for the lover that’s running from him. 

 

It’s not exactly off though; he just hopes that he’ll obtain the information without any further questioning.

 

“And why should I tell you this?” the lady asks bluntly, setting down her magazine, and Sam wants to roll his eyes. Reaching into his back pocket, he fetches his wallet and pulls out a couple of twenties that he won by hustling people at pool like his brother would do. Even though he doesn’t condone these actions now that he’s a college student who would love a superb track record that doesn’t include crime, he desperately needs the money for food, gas, and a bed while chasing Dean on his journey around America.

 

Tossing them on the counter, the woman’s crackly hands snatch them greedily while raising an eyebrow, stating “I might need a little more sugar to remember”

 

“Don’t push your luck or I’ll call the police on those drug dealers,” he says, chuckling, in the most innocent tone that he could muster, leaning in a bit closer “and you won’t be wanting any trouble now would you?” She glares, pursing her lips, for a couple of moments.

 

“Room 6,” the lady replies without missing a beat, reaching for the magazine again, as Sam nods with a fake smile “Thank you very much”

 

He doesn’t wait for a response, heading straight to the room through the horrible stench of smoke and sex. The number six replays in his mind like a broken record, eyes scanning each door for the correct number and finally matching them.

 

Knocking on the door, he calls “Dean, you in there?” before pounding some more. Lockpicking the door begins to become more of a viable option in Sam’s eyes and he’s so close to doing so until the click sound resonates in his ears.

 

The putrid scent of alcohol reaches his nose first, cringing at the sheer amount of it. There’s grumbling of something incoherent while the door fully opens, revealing disheveled dirty blonde hair and drowsy jade eyes that lost their fiery passion accompanied by heavy, dark bags. Yet, everything about the figure in front is still as gorgeous as Sam remembers. From the thin pink lips that never become chapped to the auburn freckles that dust his pale skin ever so slightly, it’s all perfect; it’s all familiar. Because it’s Dean, the one who raised him into the man that he is today and always supported him even when they fought.

 

Dean’s gaze raises to meet Sam, all mumbles going silent, and a shit-eaten grin stretches across his face in joy.

 

“Hiya, Sammy,” Dean says as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t disappear months before, puffing out breathes that reek of alcohol. Sam is furious with hurt about how carefree his brother has been, but he tries to settle himself so that he won’t scare Dean off. Although, it doesn’t stop him from barging his way in without any permission. Dean just shuts it behind him like it’s completely normal. “Rude”

 

The stench increases in ten folds when walks inside, but at least it blocks out the scents from the ‘fresh’ night air. There’s literally a whole liquor store inside the room with bottles and cans of beers, wines, vodka, whiskey, sake and some miscellaneous ones; Sam catches a rum bottle placed on the ceiling fan blade above and another hanging by a single tie from the blade on the opposite side, spinning slowly. A beer can tips over from where it stood on top of the crappy, wooden bed frame and landing on the king-sized mattress, pouring its contents onto the weird floral sheets.

 

It’s a disaster zone- or a college frat party- in here; however, to his surprise, there isn’t a single piece of women’s undergarments lying around.

 

“Y-you’ve gotten soooo much taller,” Dean says, distracting Sam from his observations. There hasn’t been any change in their heights.

 

He turns to his insane brother that now bears the goofiest smile that he’s ever seen because, apparently, everything is unicorns and sunshine for Dean right now. “I miss..hic..you sooo..hic..much, Sammy.” He emphasizes by spreading his arms, hiccuping in between the words. Sam’s never seen Dean this drunk before, but it’s enjoyable to see him so loose-lipped. It would be more enjoyable if Dean hadn’t been missing for the past couple months.

 

“Dean, you need to sit down and drink some water,” Sam orders, leading Dean to his bed, plopping him down on the edge, avoiding that stained sheets. He’s docile as he does so making Sam’s job easier. Trudging his backpack off, Sam grabs the plastic water bottle from his side pocket, drops the backpack to the side of the bed and shoves the water into Dean’s hands. He drinks without any complaints.

 

It gives Sam some time to explore a bit more. There’s a metallic flask on the TV stand that catches his eye; the only thing that isn’t a can or glass in this room. Curiously he picks it up and twirls the cap lose, he peers through the tiny hole, but it’s way too small for the human pupil. Instead, he sniffs it, the foul smell of iron invades his nostrils.

 

Blood. There’s blood in this flask and Sam's eyes widen in realization at the discovery. Why the fuck does Dean have blood in a flask? Why is he storing blood in the first place?

 

Then it’s seized by an incoming hand that hid in his blind spot.

 

“Don’t touch what isn’t yours?” Dean sputters obviously still drunk, but considerably less than before. He fastens the cap back on, setting it back down on the TV stand. “Why are you even here, Sammy?”

 

Frustration pumps through Sam’s veins again at the statement.

 

“Why am I here?!” It’s more an exclamation than a question. “You run off and don’t call or leave any type of note. Dad’s been worried sick, you know.”

 

He remembers the call he had gotten on his cell phone from his father asking if Dean was there, explaining that he’s gone missing a few weeks ago on a hunting trip. That’s all Sam needed to pause his whole future because it’s his fault, isn’t it? It’s his fault for leaving Dean alone in that godawful ‘family’ business.

 

Dean scoffs “Since when have you cared about Dad.” There are invisible words beneath that set, unspoken but heard.  _ Since when have you cared about me.  _ His brother chugs down a nearby empty beer can on the small dining table.

 

“I wasn’t,” Sam starts shaking his head, running the palm of his hand down his face, calming himself with deep breaths, sitting on one of the empty wooden chairs as standing would cause him to punch a wall. “I mean I’m not worried about Dad, Dean. I’m worried about you.”

 

Dean chuckles in response, unbelieving, as Sam furrows his eyebrows and narrows his eyes in a glare.

 

“You know dad used to boast about you” Dean saunters over to the nightstand while he speaks, picking up a bottle of whiskey and a glass cup that appears to be used. Then he’s approaching him, sluggish and swaying side to side as he walks, setting the glasses on the table when he arrives. Pouring the drink slowly, he continues “The youngest son that went to Stanford. It made me feel like one biiggg” He only stops when the cup is almost full, drops teetering off the rim in the process “fucking disappointment.”

 

Dean chugs the drink down in go with a refreshing “ah”, slamming the cup down onto the table.

 

“But I wasn’t angry because you’re supposed to live an apple pie life with a wife and kids and a stable job. I wanna protect that. Imma keep you safe, Sammy.” Dean spills into Sam’s attentive ears. There’s resolve in that voice and Sam wonders what Dean is saving him from. His brother takes a swing of the bottle this time. Sam doesn’t stop him because this might be the only way he’ll receive any answers; even though, it’s probably killing Dean’s liver.

 

Dean’s giggling again, the alcohol settling in again, turning to Sam with a grin on his face. “You know, I’ve always loved you. In the non-brotherly sense. So fucking pretty and sweet and caring. My baby brother.” Sam flushes at the sudden confession, taken off guard by the mutual feelings. A sense of relief washes over him as if he finally allowed to breathe properly now, but that’s short-lived because Dean is licking his lips. 

 

In just a few steps, he’s in front of him. Sam gulps and the shit-eaten grin returns; although, there’s a slight timidness to it.

 

“Just let me have this please”

 

That’s all the warnings that he gets before his brother pounces on top of him, straddling his lap while his ass grinds against Sam newly awakened dick. The friction sends off sparks inside of him, gasping in pleasure and Dean’s grin widens. A latch unfastens itself within Sam, releasing all the pent-up lust that’s stored inside.

 

“The tips of your ears turned pink.” Dean teases, rubbing them in between his fingers like a doting older brother and that’s not what Sam wants right now. Grabbing at Dean’s wrist, Sam tugs him forward into a searing kiss. Sam demands entrance and Dean allows it, whimpering slightly. His tongue works frantically into Dean’s, tasting all the whiskey, inhaling the combination of gunpowder and cinnamon and the Impala that reminds him so much of the home that he left behind.

 

Dean copies his movements, working desperately as if this were the apocalypse and Sam unfurls his grip on Dean’s wrist, traveling towards his sturdy waist instead to keep his brother steady. Sam can feel Dean’s hand snaking around his neck and onto his hair, pulling it harshly and he groans in response. Sam licks the roof of his mouth, enjoying the shiver that rolls down Dean’s spine.

 

Dean tries to strip Sam out of the flannel, but he knocks his hands away because he knows what it’ll lead to. He doesn’t want Dean to regret when his brain comes online, that he’d done something unforgivable. He especially doesn’t want to take Dean in this intoxicated state that will shed away easily like dead skin; he’d rather have it be during a time where both of them are soberer than ever, becoming drunk just on each other's scent.

 

In exchange, Sam lifts Dean, clutching the back of thighs without separating their lips and Dean fumbles to wrap his arms around Sam’s neck. Dean’s heavy with the extra bulk of hunting which Sam had lost in books and the strain is becoming more obvious. But he’s able to quickly maneuver them onto the bed, dropping Dean down on the stiff mattress, avoiding the giant wet spot of beer; an “oof” is forced out of his brother as he falls, breaking their elongated kiss. Sam crawls on top of him, both of them panting heavy and ragged. He admires how wild, jade eyes sparkle under the orange hue of the lamps and how pallid lips are now bright and rosy from lip locking. Sam trails his fingers down the Dean’s cheek that’s tinted in pink with freckles stark across it; the skin molds perfectly to his fingers as if it’s created for this exact purpose.

 

Because Dean is made for Sam as Sam is made for Dean. Soulmates. Brothers.

 

Dean’s the one that tugs Sam this time, impatient because nothing last forever in Dean’s eyes but, in Sam’s, this will. And that’s what he conveys through tender hands and lips.

 

There’s a slight tremble vibrating through Dean’s body, vulnerable and pliant, as he moans like a porn star- a symphony in Sam’s ears. He’s open and weak, accepting what’s given to him, shedding all of the cockiness and bravery and dominance. Letting his facade be torn apart by kisses that last a lifetime.

 

They stop when the need for air overcomes passion. Sam, still half-hard, falls sideways onto the bed as his arms wrap around Dean’s waist and nuzzle himself into Dean’s neck, afraid that he’ll run off again. Neither of them say a peep, but there are thousands of emotions in the silence. Dean’s hand grabs his arm, rubbing in comforting circles, and Sam’s eyes flutter close.

 

Sam doesn’t realize that he fell asleep until he wakes, cold and alone. The empty spot sending alarms in his sedated brain, perking his head upward to see that the room is spotless, alcohol evaporated into dust as if he were the only one that crashed here. As if Dean hadn’t been here at all. But he recalls vividly what occurred the night before. He knows that he didn’t stay in this place alone.

 

Jumping out of bed, he swings the door open and the parking lot is oddly vacant like everyone had checked out all at once. However, the sign is still the same in its broken glory. Sam shuts the door, processing these new facts, and notices a folded paper on the table.

 

There are only four words on it:

 

_ Let me go, Sammy. _

 

Sam crumples it.


End file.
